


Lay It Down Cold on My Skin

by orphan_account



Series: The James/Mike Universe [3]
Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, M/M, Pain Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: James is cooking dinner and Mike is being a nuisance, like always. Everything's normal until James jokes about pulling his knife out.Basically, it's the (fairly soft) knife kink fic I've been threatening to write for ages.





	Lay It Down Cold on My Skin

James’ flat is the most homely, neat, cosy flat Mike’s ever been in (and that’s including Ben’s). It’s so charmingly un-James – he’d first expected the place to be almost unattended-to, besides the kitchen, more a place to sleep than anything else. But his place has become Mike’s new favourite place to be: it’s fairly average in design, but everything about it is so wonderfully _James_. There’s one bookcase entirely dedicated to cookbooks, and another filled mostly with sci-fi novels. The living area is neat but comfortable, with pot plants on every available surface, and the bedroom is plain but snug. There’s something very calming about James’ place, for Mike; the colours are muted yet not monochrome, the flat itself always smells fresh and clean, everything’s tidy without being sterile, and he never feels like he’s intruding.

His favourite thing about James’ flat, without question, is watching James _be_ in his flat. The air of vague grumpiness that usually envelopes him at work or in the city melts away, and he becomes a vision of domesticity: soft t-shirts, old joggers, socks and no shoes, humming to himself as he potters around (sometimes he walks around with no shirt at all, and that’s when James’ flat becomes Mike’s _heaven_ ). It’s one of Mike’s new favourite things, just watching how James moves around his own flat. They’ve been properly dating for nearly a year now, and these days Mike basically lives at James’ flat, for two reasons: one, his own flat is far smaller and less nice than James’, and two, if he stays at James’ then James does the cooking.

If watching James be James is _one of_ Mike’s favourite things, then his _absolute_ favourite thing is watching James cook. When he puts on some music and sets about making food, James gets into this intense, ultra-productive frame of mind, and everything else just falls out of focus for him. He mutters to himself sometimes, asking what would go with something (and answering himself, obviously), having these little conversations with himself while making dinner. Mike loves all of it, he could watch James cooking every day of his life – honestly, he basically does anyway.

What he especially loves is watching James with a knife.

Obviously he has a thing for James’ hands – everyone knows that by now: James, the people he works with, the woman at the bottle shop down the road, anyone who’s ever witnessed them sharing a meal. Even his own _mother_ commented on how much he stares at James’ hands once, which had nearly led him to end it all. There’s just something about them that is intoxicating; his hands are so delightfully _masculine_ , so clearly capable, so well-worked and experienced yet still soft. And every so often, Mike’s reminded of how deadly they could be: when he watches him in jiu-jitsu classes, or sees him cracking lobster shells like it’s nothing.

Or when, like now, he’s holding a steel blade, manoeuvring the knife as smoothly through the joints of a chicken as if it were an extension of his own hand. Mike stares at how his long fingers hook around the handle, one crooked against the blade, wrist moving fluidly as though this is no effort – which, Mike realises, it probably isn’t. James has been wielding a knife like this for years now, learning how best to hold it, what feels most comfortable, how to exercise the most control. He has a collection (it’s small, but it’s definitely a collection) of various knives he’s picked up from here and there: a set of throwing knives, a couple of pocket knives in various condition, a machete with a fabric sheath. They’re scattered around his flat and he plays with them sometimes, nothing particularly dangerous or exciting, but he clearly likes the feel of them in his hand. Sometimes, when he’s reading over a recipe or trying to figure out his next step, James will spin a knife around in his fingers, flicking the blade around like it’s a pencil, like there’s no chance in the world it could cut him (which there isn’t, really, because even when he’s barely paying attention James knows exactly how to control a knife). Mike’s had a thing to knives for as long as he can remember, but even though watching _anyone_ with a knife can get him worked up, nobody affects him the way James does. Watching him toy with a knife without even thinking about it is the most erotic thing Mike’s ever seen.

“Babe. You’re staring again.”

Mike jolts, feeling himself blush even as James grins to show him he’s joking. James knows about his thing for his hands, probably knew before they even started going out, but Mike’s never confessed to the knife thing. Ben knows, because of course Ben knows – for someone so uninterested in romantic relationships, he’s certainly adept at reading the intricacies of other people’s, and he’d understood immediately that Mike’s staring at James while he chops ingredients wasn’t just about his hands. Ben had asked him why he hasn’t brought it up with James, and Mike was in two minds: first of all, _of course_ he hasn’t brought it up, James might think he’s crazy, but also…would it really be such a bad idea? James has been open to all of Mike’s weird things so far (getting James to fuck him in the studio after hours had taken some convincing, but they’d done it multiple times now so obviously he’d enjoyed it), so surely this wouldn’t be a deal-breaker, right?

“Mike, you’re _still_ staring. What’s up?”

It’s the clatter of the knife against the chopping board, more than anything, that properly snaps him out of his reverie. He apologises, shrugging, but James isn’t convinced.

“You’ve been zoning out a lot recently, is everything okay?”

A year ago, Mike would have mocked James’ caring side, but nowadays he lives for the gentle concern in the man’s voice. He sighs, figuring now is as good a time as any to open the conversation.

“I like watching you cook is all.”

James snorts.

“No you don’t, you get bored and try to distract me, or you fuck around with the dish to see if I notice.”

Mike can’t argue with that – he definitely does.

“Well, okay, not necessarily _cook_ , but I like watching you chop things up.”

He’d hoped it would sound nonchalant enough, but James catches the remark, tilting his head ponderously. He lets it go, shaking his head and continuing with his prep, but now Mike’s worried that James thinks something’s wrong. Which is the opposite of true – Mike has never been happier than he is right now, with James, and the possibility that James doesn’t realise this is unacceptable. So Mike shows his affection the only way he really knows how.

He reaches across the counter when James is digging around in the fridge, dropping a hefty pinch of salt into the stroganoff sauce sitting on the stove, quickly stirring to disguise the traces. James catches him, batting his hand away from the wooden spoon.

“I was helping!” Mike exclaims. James just shoots him a mildly annoyed look, licking some of the sauce off the spoon and making a face. He swats at Mike’s arm in reprimand, groaning as the blond dances around the counter to get right up behind him. He puts his hands on James’ shoulders and whispers, “See? Helping,” into his ear, laughing joyously when his boyfriend playfully bites at his fingers. He keeps dicking around while James adds some flour to the sauce to reverse the damage, poking at his ribs and generally getting in his way, enjoying how he tries to maintain focus while so obviously wanting to laugh at Mike’s childishness.

When he finally manages to fix the sauce, he grabs Mike’s wrists in his hands, holding them by his side while he reasons, “You do realise that if you fuck my sauce up, you have nothing else for dinner, right?”

Mike can’t resist. “You know I love fucking your sauce up, love” he replies, giggling, while James just rolls his eyes.

“That doesn’t even make _sense_ ,” he groans. 

Mike wiggles free, getting his arms around James’ waist and grabbing his bum, whispering, “I’ll show you what I mean later,” mouth right up against his ear, while behind his back he’s grabbing for another pinch of salt.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” James whispers back, spinning them around so Mike can’t get his hand to the sauce, nipping at his neck in reprimand. Mike then sprinkles the salt down the back of James’ shirt, dancing away before James can grab him, laughing mischievously as he runs back around the other side of the counter. James sighs, exasperated, as he struggles to shake the salt out of his clothes.

“Don’t make me get my knife out.”

It’s remarkable how quickly Mike freezes.

His immediate thought is that Ben’s blabbed – he and James do spend an awful lot of time together in recipe labs testing dishes for videos, it’s not unreasonable to imagine the subject’s come up at some point – but the way James’ face falls nixes that thought immediately. James rushes to apologise, already berating himself for going too far, and Mike hates to give himself away but he _has_ to.

 “James,” he talks over his boyfriend, almost having to shout with how much James is stammering. “James, love, calm down. I’m not freaking out.”

James trails off, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Mike, you _froze_ , I can’t actually explain to you how scared you looked.”

Mike sighs. Time to rip off the plaster.

“Surely you know me well enough to tell the difference between my scared face and my turned on face.”

Now it’s James’ turn to freeze. Mike explains.

“You know my thing about your hands?”

James blushes, nods.

“Well, that _thing_ also applies to your hands…holding knives. I would say it _especially_ applies to your hands holding knives.”

James nods again, still blushing, but looking contemplative.

“So you weren’t freaking out, you were…”

“Freaking out,” Mike finishes, laughing, “but in a good way. In a, ‘oh my god could that actually happen’ way.”

James hums contemplatively, then nods.

“So it’s a sex thing?”

“I guess so?” Mike muses. “I’ve never done it before, so I can’t say for sure, but the idea of you and knives has definitely got me off more times than I care to admit.”

He expects James to look horrified, or to laugh out loud. The look of genuine deliberation on his face, however, is an interesting surprise. James’ hand trails over the knife block next to the stove, fingering the handles thoughtfully. He turns off the hob before rounding the counter, dinner forgotten as he steps between Mike’s legs where he’s sitting and presses their foreheads together.

“On one condition.”

“Anything,” Mike replies, unable to believe how lucky he is. “Babe, you could give me a hundred conditions and that would be okay. Anything you want that would make this good for you, I agree to immediately.”

James grins at him, glowing, and gives him a quick kiss before straightening up again.

“I’m not using a kitchen knife. I’ll only use a blunt knife that isn’t likely to actually cut you.”

Mike nods immediately, unable to believe this is his only condition.

“Obviously, I’m not gonna ask you to cut me up straight away.”

James raises an eyebrow. “We’ll save that for another time,” Mike finishes cheekily.

James chuckles, nodding, and repeats, “Another time.”

He drags Mike in close with a hand on the back of his head, kissing his stunned mouth closed. Mike’s hands quickly wrap around him, pulling him closer as he breathes him in. All this talk of knives has got him more worked up that usual, and when he pulls James in close enough that his cock rubs on his thigh James moans in surprise, breaking the kiss to mutter, “Fuck, you’re worked up.”

Mike doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t need to, so just bucks his hips against his thigh again and drags him back into a sloppy kiss. He can’t believe this is happening: his boyfriend (his _boyfriend_ , it’s been a fucking _year_ and he’s still not even over the fact that James is his actual boyfriend) has just heard that Mike wants him to take a knife to his skin, and he’s fine with it, he’s still here and kissing him senseless. In fact, if the desperate way James is pulling at his shirt is anything to go by, he’s more than fine with it – so fine with it that he’s hauling Mike off the stool and practically dragging him towards the bedroom, undressing him as they go. Mike clings to his shoulders trying desperately not to trip, which he definitely would have done had James’ strong hands not been gripping his waist firmly. When they get to the bed Mike’s shirt and belt are already gone and his jeans are open, James’ teeth attached to his neck while Mike grinds his palm against James’ crotch. James’ teeth are sharp on his skin, pinching hard enough that the tingling starts at his scalp and ripples right the way down his body; he moans aloud, shivering as James chuckles against his skin.

His body is hot under James’ touch, he’s alive in his arms, revelling in the sensations of James’ beard scratching his skin and his hands on his arse. Mike’s arms are tight around his shoulders, pulling him as close as humanly possible, head tilted to the side to allow as much access to his neck as he can. It’s a position they’ve been in so many times over the last year but every time is as exhilarating as the first – every time, Mike can’t believe he’s lucky enough to have this. He can’t believe he’s got the most gorgeous man in London in his arms, smiling up at him, running his hands over Mike’s body, whispering praise like _James_ is the lucky one here. Mike works a hand into James’ hair, scratching softly at his scalp and pulling slightly to hear his boyfriend moan happily. Eventually, James pulls away from Mike’s neck, looking him in the eye.

“We need a safe word.”

Mike bursts out laughing.

“Sorry,” he gasps, as James shakes his head in exasperation, “sorry, you’re totally right. That phrase has just been absolutely ruined by the internet.”

“I know, but we need something to put a stop to things if it gets too much.”

It’s sobering that James doesn’t say _you_ , but _we_. Mike refocuses himself.

“James, you know that if _you_ don’t want to do this, I don’t expect you to, right?”

“I know that, and I do want to,” James says emphatically, grabbing Mike’s hands, “but I’ve never done this before either. I have no way of knowing what might be too much – for either of us – and I’d rather we know what to do if that happens.”

“Well hello there, Ben,” Mike teases, laughing when James swats his bum in chastisement. Then he adds, more seriously, “You _are_ right, I just have no clue what word to use. Can’t we just say _stop_?”

James shrugs, nodding. “We can. There’s also this thing I’ve heard about, the colour system or something, where you check in and say a colour for how you’re travelling. So green means great, orange is unsure, and red is stop. We could maybe try that?”

“I love you,” Mike says seriously, squeezing James’ hand in his own, “and I love that you’ve looked into these things. The colours sound good, I like that idea.”

“Okay,” James says, nodding. He’s smiling shyly, and Mike smiles back – somehow this feels like they’re back at the beginning, back when they were asking permission to kiss one another, checking in for something as simple as a hand on the arse. It’s the same emotions, really, just a slightly more fraught situation, but the fact doesn’t change that Mike would trust James with his life, and he’s pretty sure James feels the same. Most of the nerves come not from fear, anyway, but genuine excitement.

“We also need to figure out how you want to do this. As in, what positions you want, what you don’t want.”

Immediately, Mike replies, “I want to see you. I think I need to be able to watch what you’re doing, at least for now.”

James nods: he wouldn’t have done it any other way, anyway.

“And just…be slow, y’know? No quick flourishes or sneaky stuff, let me see what you’re about to do before you do it, that kind of thing.”

Again, James nods, and adds, “I wouldn’t want to do any of that anyway. I may be confident in the kitchen, but holding a knife to an actual person – who I love desperately and never want to hurt in any non-consensual way – is something I’m not used to.”

He looks so earnest that Mike can’t do anything but kiss him, slowly and gently and (he hopes) reassuringly.

“What are some of your boundaries?” He asks against his lips, pulling away again to give him a chance to speak. James shakes his head, uncertain.

“I guess I don’t really want to cut you? Maybe that’ll change in the future, but for now, no actual blood.”

Mike nods – he can handle that.

“But besides that, I don’t really think I have any,” he looks confused, “should I have more boundaries? It feels like I should have more.”

“We don’t have to know them all now,” Mike assures him. “Maybe we find some along the way that we didn’t think of, and we’ll sort them out when we get to them.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Should we get to it, then?”

It’s so endearingly James, Mike’s heart melts a little. He nods, suddenly more aware than ever that he’s shirtless with his fly undone (has been this whole time, how James has kept a straight face is beyond him). James moves to kiss him again, and Mike’s already got his eyes closed when James makes a surprised little noise and pulls back.

“You need to choose a knife!” He exclaims, darting around his bedroom to gather the various knives he’s got scattered around the place. He dumps four onto the bed, glaring at Mike as he giggles to himself, then stands back and gestures to his little pile. Mike appreciates the thought, but he already knows which one he wants James to use.

He’s been fantasising about this for nearly a year, of course he knows.

“You know those throwing knives you’re always playing with in the living room? Use one of those.”

James ducks out to get the set, muttering the whole way, “Of course, can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” The throwing knives are fairly small, only six inches from handle to tip, half of that being the blade. Not as big or flashy as most of James’ other knives, but Mike likes them for two reasons: one, he knows they’re reasonably blunt because James doesn’t actually throw them, just plays with them while he’s reading or writing stuff for the website, and two, Mike’s had to watch James playing with them for _months_ now, and finally his torture is going to pay off.

When James comes back, he’s got the leather sheath in his hand, and even though Mike’s seen him pop the snap open with his thumb a million times before, tonight the sound goes straight to his cock. James pulls out all three knives, fanning them out and looking them over before choosing one. Despite how small they are, they’re wicked-looking, perfectly weighted with a small hole in the blade. There’s no wood or rope handle, it’s just solid steel the whole way along, which makes for the loveliest contrast against the pale skin of James’ fingers as it flicks through them. Mike doesn’t realise he’s touching himself until James tries to catch his eye and instead stares at where he’s rubbing his cock through his jeans. He grins when Mike takes his hand away guiltily, shakes his head.

“You can touch yourself.”

Mike can’t obey quickly enough. Even just the sight of James with a knife is getting him close embarrassingly quickly, and he grips tight around the base of his cock to pull things back a bit, at least for the moment. James comes closer, slowly, with the knife held around chest height so Mike can definitely see it. Mike nods automatically, urging him on, and finally James pressed the length of the blade flat under Mike’s collarbone, waiting a second before he drags it across his skin.

The blade is blunt enough that it would probably struggle cutting through a strawberry cleanly, but it’s cold and hard and in James’ hand and that’s more than Mike had ever thought he’d get. He tries not to breathe too hard, which goes out the window when James angles the tip against his skin and trails it back the other way. He moans, the sharp sting sending pleasure pooling in his stomach, and when he opens his eyes James is staring at the white line it’s left on his chest.

“Colour, love?”

James jolts a little, then smiles.

“Green. Very, very green. You?”

“Verdant,” Mike affirms, buzzing.

“I was just admiring,” James explains. “Did that feel good?”

“So good I’m worried this might not last very long at all.”

“Then we’d better not waste time,” James replies, getting his hands on his boyfriend’s hips and gently laying him down on the bed. They figure out the easiest way to position themselves is to have James straddling Mike’s hips, so he’s got full access to Mike’s chest and full stability – though James is normally on top, they both figure there’s no chance they’re going to make it to actual fucking tonight. It’s hard for Mike not to just grind his hips up into James’ arse and finish things quickly, because he’s _so_ hard right now, but the promise of everything to come makes him behave himself. He’s waited so long.

He’s done this to himself before, obviously. He’s dragged blunt knives over the palms of his hands, feeling the point drag but never pierce; revelled in the thick heat that settles in his gut, having travelled from wherever the sharp tip lingers. He’s spent years pressing his skin into every sharp surface that presents itself, digging his hips into sharp table corners and enjoying the ‘accidental’ drag of loose fencing wires across his limbs. He’s watched scratches go from white to red and raise up, a temporary mark that he can press his fingers into and feel a fraction of the sensation once again. He’s cut himself before, too, to feel that sharpness linger properly. It was never based in self-loathing, at least not that he’s aware of: Mike’s certainly got his issues with self-esteem, but that’s not what cutting was about. It was always about seeking that rush of goosebumps that started at the knife point and radiated through his entire body, followed by a tremulous shudder. The skin high up on his thigh was his favourite: the part right next to his crotch just under his hip, where the skin is tender and packed with nerves. He remembers Ben noticing once when they were on holiday in Vietnam, sharing a room. Mike had been getting changed and Ben had seen the red, half-healed cuts. He’d asked in classic Ben form – delicately but unable to be ignored – and Mike had had to assure him that it wasn’t what he thought it was. Which had then led to the awkward situation of having to explain what it _actually_ was, to which Ben (again in classic Ben form) had insisted that as long as he was safe, he’d support him one hundred percent.

He’d had to explain the scars to James, too, which had also been fairly easy, but James hadn’t realised it was a knife thing, he’d just thought it was a general pain thing, and Mike wasn’t at all ready to admit to it without it being guessed at in the first place. So James had indulged Mike’s desire for pain with fingernails, open palms, hair pulling, and Mike had loved every second of it, because it was enough, for a while.

He’d sought similar pain while having sex with people before James, too, as innocuously as possible. Encouraged lovers to scrape their fingernails along the sensitive skin of his chest, or dig their teeth in deeper, or pinch harder. Every time it had been good, but never enough, no matter how many marks are left behind. He remembers Ben commenting one day years ago on the broken, red skin peeking through his v-neck shirt, showing the lines the previous night’s lay had dragged into his chest. It was always Ben who noticed, or at least always Ben who commented. Ben, the most romantically stunted but alarmingly perceptive person in Mike’s life, who purposefully left the knife sharpening to James because he knew what that would do to Mike. Ben, who used to occasionally dug his fingernails into Mike’s arm just to get a reaction, just to tease and then disappear.

Ben, who – despite all this – had kept his promise, and never told James about…this.

Mike makes a mental note to thank Ben for generally being a great person, and immediately makes another mental note to stop thinking about Ben while James is straddling his hips and grinding gently on his cock. He’s got the knife in hand, and he checks in with Mike quickly before placing the blade on his chest again, a little further down this time. He uses the tip straight away this time, having clearly noticed the reaction it drew the first time, and Mike holds his tongue well until James trails dangerously close to his sensitive nipple.

“ _Fuck_ , shit,” he says eloquently, trying not to buck his hips too hard and disturb James. The man grins, biting his lip as he traces the knife around his chest without even really pressing in, just drawing random shapes, occasionally veering close to Mike’s nipples to get that reaction again. He starts circling his hips over Mike’s, more out of instinct than anything deliberate, but the vice grip Mike’s got on his thighs shows clearly approves. The deep, almost sickeningly good feeling of James’ arse grinding into Mike’s cock is counterbalanced by the spine-tingling spark of pain just under his collarbone as James finally presses; Mike feels hot and cold all over and he can’t think, can barely breathe.

He gasps out, “Orange,” and immediately James pulls the knife away from his skin. Mike feels him lean up to get off and tightens his grip on his legs, keeping him straddled over his body. James relents, but shuffles himself further back so he’s more on his thighs that his dick, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Mike breathes in and holds it, breathing out heavily.

“It was just a lot, that’s all. Good, but a lot. Felt a bit like I was drowning”

James nods, flicking the knife around in his fingers absent-mindedly. The steel scrapes a little against his skin and makes that lovely sound, like a blade being unsheathed. Mike’s hips buck at the sight and the sound, unconsciously, and James chuckles.

“It’s good you stopped. Really good.”

Mike groans and leans up, meeting James in the middle as he bends down for a kiss. He’s still buzzing, his skin still on fire, but he can breathe again now.

“Tell me if you want to start again,” James continues, the knife put aside on the sheets so he can get both hands around Mike’s head, not holding him still so much as just _holding_ him. It’s nice – grounding – and Mike nods, noting that James’ hands are slightly clammy. He turns his head so he can press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s palm, trying to reassure him, because now that he’s breathing again he remembers that this is new for James, too. James is nervous, too. Rather than speaking, Mike feels over the mattress for the knife, placing it in James’ hand again, but James does nothing with it. Mike huffs.

“I want to start again,” he says, half-petulant, knowing James won’t do things by halves. “Really,” he adds, at James’ raised brows. James nods, spinning the knife in his hand so he’s got a proper grip. He lowers the blade to Mike’s stomach this time; Mike hadn’t realised how much more sensitive the skin there would be. He makes this punched-out little noise and digs his fingers into James’ thighs, eyes locked on the blade dragging over his belly, catching his breath as it glides up over his ticklish ribs. Every so often James alternates the pressure, first letting the blade just rest on its own then pressing in a little, then a little more, and Mike’s fucking his hips up into the body above him because he needs to chase the thick heat pooling in his groin. James is grinding back down into him, arse rubbing directly on Mike’s cock, and his jeans are still done up but Mike can see that he’s hard as a rock, and he rubs his hand right over James’ dick. James moans, mouth dropping open, and he’s trailing the knife over Mike’s collarbones when Mike mutters, “Put it against my throat.”

It makes James moan louder, but he hesitates to move, so Mike gently grabs the hand with the knife in it and brings it to his own throat, nodding at James’ questioning frown. James reorients his grip so he’s holding the blade steady, then rests it against Mike’s throat. He presses just a little at Mike’s insistence that, “I’m green, so green,” and the blissful look that crosses Mike’s face makes him press a little harder. It’s fucking stunning the way Mike looks at him, cold steel dug into his neck yet he’s never looked more turned on, and he can barely choke out a warning before his hips stutter under James’. James keeps the blade pressed in, not too hard but enough that it leaves a mark when he finally does pull it away, after Mike’s shuddered through his orgasm and gone pliant under him. Only then does James get his own dick out, needing no more than the briefest of touches before he’s coming on Mike’s stomach, spattering the pink trails he’s carved in there with jizz. He pauses for a moment, breathing, pondering, before trailing the knife through the mess. He grins at the noise Mike makes.

The grin fades when Mike grabs the hand and pulls it up to his face, licking James’ come off the blade. James stares, feeling his spent cock twitch, and he kisses his boyfriend deeply once he’s done. He runs his hands over Mike’s torso, seeking out the patterns he’d traced earlier, enjoying the little hiss when he brushes over a nipple. They stay like this for a while, James hovering over Mike, both enjoying the come-down.

Eventually, James gets up to clean them up properly, wetting a cloth in bathroom sink and wiping Mike’s stomach down. The warm water stings a little on his raised skin and he writhes on the mattress, shaking his head when James asks if he wants him to stop.

“Feels nice,” he murmurs, certain he’d be getting hard again if he wasn’t so completely fucked-out (and they didn’t even _actually_ fuck, Christ, that’s something to look forward to). James hums in interest, storing the information away as he carries on cleaning Mike down. Eventually, he undresses him, swapping his jeans out for a pair of trackies. It isn’t until James gets his own jeans off that he realises why most of the jizz was centred on Mike’s stomach – because Mike’s jizz had ended up primarily on the arse of James’ jeans. He groans, showing Mike.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

Mike giggles, ignoring the reprimanding slap James lands on his calf.

“Do you really?” He asks, tone mock-surprised. “I hadn’t realised.”

James rolls his eyes, pulling on a pair of Mike’s trackies (he likes how loose they are on him, okay, and Mike’s trousers are so much more comfy than his own) and crawling over the mattress to curl himself around his boyfriend.

“As if you need any more convincing of how much I love you, I turned off dinner halfway through cooking and left it, just to make you happy.”

Mike laughs brightly, having completely forgotten where this had even started.

“Don’t act like this didn’t make you equally happy, you cheeky bastard.”

He laughs again when he feels James shrug, not bothering to deny it.

“What are we going to do for dinner, then? The stroganoff’s ruined.”

Mike leaves enough of a pause to pretend he’s actually thinking, before suggesting hopefully, “Indian?”

It’s another example of James’ love for him that he does no more than roll his eyes before fumbling for his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally did it! The title comes from Six Blade Knife by Dire Straits (because of course it does). This isn't nearly as intense as I was planning to go, but I got drunk and couldn't do justice to any proper knife play so this is what came out instead.
> 
> Most of this was written while day-drinking and avoiding major essays, because I'm an adult who makes adult decisions. I have nothing more to say, other than I'm sorry.


End file.
